


Old Dog Love

by misura



Category: A Place of Greater Safety - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "Your dog dislikes me," said Camille.





	Old Dog Love

"Your dog dislikes me," said Camille, and it took Robespierre a moment to decipher the statement, or rather, to realize that there was nothing to decipher.

It was true that Brount had growled at Camille, on occasion. Last night, for example. Robespierre had thought nothing of it: what was there to think of, after all? Camille posed no threat to him.

"He doesn't know you," Robespierre said. "That is all." He did not say, I know you, Camille. You sometimes say things you do not mean, but at heart, you are a kind and gentle person.

You need people to protect you from yourself, and from people who would take advantage of you.

He wondered if perhaps Brount might have sensed this fundamental truth, and growled not to threaten, but by way of saying, Camille, if you need protecting, I am right here.

"I suppose it's true enough that plenty of people who don't know me don't let that stop them from hating me." Camille's expression was pensive, absent, but Robespierre thought he detected a hint of hurt, of bewilderment at the irrationality of strangers. "And, of course, I'm hated by a number of people who _do_ know me, although in their case, I don't mind so much. After all, often as not, the feeling is entirely mutual."

Robespierre did not believe that there was anyone Camille truly hated, in the way most people understood the word. Camille hated injustice and tyranny. His enemies were the enemies of the Revolution. "You don't mean that," he said, even though he knew there was no point.

True to his expectations, Camille gave him a look of disbelief. "Whyever would I not mean it? I pride myself on always saying what I mean, and meaning what I say. Surely you know this."

"I know," Robespierre said, meaning, I know that you wish to believe this of yourself, but, Camille, it is not true. You are too tender-hearted, too ready to see the good and turn a blind eye towards the bad.

Camille sighed. "You're certainly in a strange mood this morning, and all because your dog doesn't like me. I'm rather sorry I brought it up now."

"You should never be sorry for telling me when something bothers you," Robespierre said quickly, a little alarmed: what else might Camille be keeping from him, for fear of upsetting his mood? Ought he talk to Danton, to find out? "And I already told you, Brount does not dislike you. Only give him some time to become used to you."

Camille arched an eyebrow. "You're assuming I'll be spending the night here more often."

"Yes, of course," Robespierre said. It had seemed obvious to him that this was not a one-time event, that this was merely an extension of their friendship. "Surely you can see how much more convenient it would be, for everyone involved." Surely you don't need to look to strangers for what I can give you as easily, and with a far greater understanding of your nature, your desires, your needs.

Surely you would prefer your friends to know where they may find you.

"Convenient," repeated Camille. He sounded amused. "What a way with words you have."

Robespierre felt himself flinch a little. Camille, you claim you only ever say things you mean - well, then perhaps you are not always fully aware of what you are saying. Robespierre knew that he could not speak or write as Camille did. He spoke for the Revolution after consideration, preparation and rehearsal. It did not make him any less dedicated; it only meant that he was not like Camille, but then, who was?

"Then again, the passionate speeches of lovers do get tiresome," Camille said. "And you have always been different."

Robespierre considered himself a normal, ordinary person. He had obtained his position through hard work. Anyone might have achieved as much, had they applied themselves the way he had.

"Perhaps if you fed him, walked him," he said, forcing his mind back to the problem of Brount.

"When I was courting Lucile, I tried very hard to make myself agreeable to her mother," said Camille.

The connection between his own suggestion and Camille's response evaded Robespierre. He accepted that there must be one, though, this being Camille.

"He's a good-natured animal, truly." Like you, Robespierre didn't add, although the comparison struck him as unexpectedly apt. Camille, too, would growl from time to time at those he cared deeply for, lashing out from affection, rather than from dislike.

"I believe you," Camille said. "There. Does that dispense of the subject? Can we move on to more important topics now? Is there coffee?"

Pointless, to resist: this was Camille, and what were any of Robespierre's worries, compared to the Revolution, to Camille's writing? The needs of the one must always come second to the needs of the many - even, or perhaps especially if that one was Robespierre. Who better knew the importance of Camille's work, after all?

"Not yet, but soon," he promised, sensing Camille already drawn away from him, mind on other things.

Convenient, he had called the arrangement - and so it was, Robespierre assured himself. Add to that rational, thoughtful, well-considered. Good things, one and all. No one might wish for more, surely.


End file.
